Lost Paradise. Looking up at the rocky walls surrounding the hamlet, they guessed from the slightly pink shade of the sky that the day was near. Eager to take possession of these mountains dropped in the silver sea like an enormous jewel, they left the ancient oil mill. It would be a change, they thought, in the routine of the holidays. No sunbathing, no barbecue, no surf, no cooking together, no siesta today. It took them more than four hours to reach Fornalutx (Mallorca), enthusiastically starting to climb but puffing when they reached the top of the wall where a new world began. After the first half hour it was bliss to pursue their way horizontally with the sea down below and still in the shade, God be blessed. Through aggressive grass, they followed a narrow track on the side of the mountain, only a scar through which sheep made their way through centuries. Later, with the sun very high, they drove deep into the island, discovering abandoned fincas, deserted places with broken shutters, missing doors. Nice spots to rest a while in the shade of thick old walls, with fountains spitting bravely refreshing water. Nearly exhausted, they climbed more slowly. Astonished mules gazed, wondering who they were, with their flashy clothes and their bare legs, so different from the people they were used to. After a last fierce climbing under an unbearable sun, Edgard the indefatigable, the fierce, reached the top of an ultimate hill. — I can see the village, down below. It's the end! How right he was! Fornalutx showed its tiled roofs, its high houses piled up, nobody knew how, and its ever-closed shutters. Some yews broke the uniformity of the sun-toasted walls. They could hear a dog barking. The end! Viva la Paella y el vino tinto de la Señora Catalina, Reina de la Tarta de Limón! Hurry up if you can! The gazpacho with its flavours of tomato, garlic, fresh onions and peppers will be refreshing. But…! No paella today! Let's have a grand mallorcan meal. Let's taste the roasted suckling pig! Ola! Catalina! Have you got pomegranate jam left? Would be perfect with this meat! What a feast! Let's not count the empty bottles of wine! When leaving Catalina's place they were jolly and noisy, still full of pep in spite of their long walk. And, would you believe it? Now, didn't they plan to visit the village! Discovering the narrow streets asleep in the shade, the cobblestones, flowers lining up at the foot of the blind houses. Siesta hour… Silent cats flew on velvet paws, hurrying to some secret date. Music notes filtered through the shutters somewhere. Piano? Would it be Chopin? They climbed the main stair but slowly. With sixteen kilometres behind them and the wine having been poured lavishly, they could appreciate a rest. And there they sat, at the top of the eightieth step, breathing heavily in front of the church on the stone bench, the very meeting place where village women, invariably mourning, spend gossipy afternoons. A few yards away a middle-aged woman with excessively curly hair, black slippers, black dress with a tiny black and white mongrel observed them. — What a divine place! remarked the black haired Anne. — Full of Northern people, added the blond Anne, Swedish, you know. Intellectual crowd. Theatre and movie world! Many British people too. They came here after the war, retired from the army. Life was cheap, wine for hardly anything, oranges galore. They didn't mix with the natives. Bridge in the afternoon, tea at five, whisky at eight… and servants for a few pesetas! —I don’t care who lived here! It’s a paradise! Wonder the prices of these houses! exclaimed Pierre. He leaned back against the wall and looked up. The edges of the roofs nearly touched one another. Flowers hanged from the balconies. — Lets visit a house! He stood up, looked at the owner of the mongrel and asked, in his own pidgin spanish : — Are there any houses for sales? There was. She would go for the key. — Now Pierre, you can't seriously… — Of course not! It's only to have an idea. They waited in silence as the woman fetched the key. Another twenty steps and they reached an old house hidden in a secluded yard. Cobblestones and a medlar tree! Florentina, they didn't know her name yet, turned the ancient key. The heavy door opened silently on a very dark . Quickly the woman unbolted another door and the sun poured in from the patio. They discovered chairs and century old chests lining up the white washed walls. — Look in the corner, cried Jean-Jacques, a water well! Fantastic! The woman led them, three steps down, in the vaulted kitchen and, two steps up, in the cellar where they discovered an oil reservoir. Back in the entrada, seven steps more brought them into a dark dining room leading to the tiny terrace covered with a monstrous bougainvillea. An inviting stone bench, an army of nasturtiums invading the earth floor, a lemon tree flirting with a mimosa… this was THE Paradise! And the view! They looked down on a few acres of orange trees and further away to the mountains like a huge cake with many different layers. A few houses with their pink tiled roofs pointing out of a sea of orange trees, higher up a greyish layer of olive trees and on top of that a green blackish layer of pine trees. Exit the trees! They were topped with rocks, pinkish under the late afternoon sun! Awesome! Maybe you guessed the end of this story? The house was bought a few weeks later and kept for twenty years in spite of one divorce, the death of a lover, the grown up children, the footmarks from the "other's" grandchildren on the whitewashed walls, the sharing of a car, the unauthorised borrowing of surfboards…… and the hundred steps getting inexplicably hard to manage.